Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to
whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed by
it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his
footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had been
strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was
not now to stop, to question or to fear.
"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement
for you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the
cathedral for afternoon service.
"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to
her word.
But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to
conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite
reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an
obscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all her
expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than
the mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared upon
the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which
opens the first scene in----.
For years there had not been such a sensation created among the
frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this
stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression
that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every
tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very
embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the
effect was a complete triumph.
Mary Melville and her son gazed on the _debutante_--they had no
word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the
tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and every
note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart.
"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--for
_you_. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea,
when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her
place.
"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and
trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in
that very hour ascended. "She is mine _now_, and no earthly
consideration or power shall divide us."
And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady
turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield
then, and she had fears for the future.
A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent
in beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice was
raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but
glad and gay, angelic in its joy.
Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a light
was on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness in
those eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but
though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the
admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection
in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her
woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of
her care and love must have passed before she came into _that_
presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress
of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled?
That night and the following day, there were many who sought
admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the
homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in
vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what
the noble woman sought; _and_ because, ere she had risen in the
morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to
her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world.
"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I
am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand
times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have
crowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met--met at
last--you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood in
God's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me?
Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then--and thinking, too,
that if this honor was in any way to be considered a _reward_, the
needful part was wanting--you were not there! Yet you _were_ there,
you have written me; ah! but not _Rosalie, my wife_, the woman I
loved better than _all_ on earth--the _acknowledged_ woman, her
whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part
of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me
consecrated--and I obeyed your call; I saw _you_ when the people
anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you
read my heart at all, to-day, you _knew_ how I had suffered--you
_saw_ that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in the
thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of _our_ past; that
you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also,
have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the
path of duty with weariness?
"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose
between us--Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything to
you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let
your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once
recognised, which can make us happy _yet_. I trust you as in our
younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me
that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies
of this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to
you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise
up, to condemn me. Let me come and plead _with_ you, for I know not
what I write."